


Cake or Death

by Cutebutpsycho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2346200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/pseuds/Cutebutpsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this prompt from tumblr user the-enigmatic-crux:</p><p>I need a fic in which Mary is wearing an ear-piece at Magnussen's flat and while she's doing her thing and Magnussen is whimpering like a pup, Sherlock comes and interrupts everything, so the voice in the ear piece overhears everything and after an exasperated sigh expresses distaste that she is being compromised so he tells her to neutralize him the way she's been trained in the past to do because 'I told the meddling halfwit it wasn't his business. Stubborn to a fault, brother mine.'</p><p>So I ran with it. The working relationship of Mycroft and Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cake or Death

**Author's Note:**

> Again big thanks to GS Jenner for her help in whacking this one about an the title. She's worth her weight in gold and chocolates.
> 
> About as accurate with espionage as Moffat was.

_Fucking hell, there’s always something I miss_ , she thought as she heard him enter the room. Mary had the target -- Charles Augustus Magnussen --  on his knees, crying. All she had to do was pull the trigger and everything would be solved. No more running, looking over her shoulder. She could be married, happy and content. Her family would be safe. John would be safe, their baby would be safe. She could have a normal life with freshly-baked bread and cups of tea and reading the newspaper in the mornings like normal people do.

Then this asshole had to go and muck it up.

She nearly barked out a laugh of disbelief as she heard, “Additionally, if you’re going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume …”

“You can’t take the shot now,” Mycroft’s voice crackled in her ear. Despite the static, there was no panic in his voice, still cool, upper crust and annoying as hell.

Mary snorted. She knew this. She knew he knew this. Leaving them with a body would be less than optimal -- especially if it was Mycroft’s beloved baby brother. She turned to face Sherlock, watching a twitch of disbelief flicker over his face.

“Is John here?” she asked, dropping the professionalism for a moment.

“He’s downstairs.”

 _Fucking hell_ , she thought to herself. Not that it really mattered, she was stuck. With Sherlock knowing, he would tell John and everything would be ruined.

“So what do you do now? Kill us both?” She could almost hear the smirk in Magnussen’s voice.

“Mary, whatever he’s got on you, let me help.”

Her chest tightened, torn between wanting to believe Sherlock and not trusting him. She could kill Magnussen, she thought. Sherlock would help her hide the body. Magnussen was also his target, she’d save him the dirty work. But John -- _What would your husband think? Your lovely husband, upright, honorable_. Mary's throat closed as she imagined John’s reaction. He wouldn’t be pleased with all the lies -- and these were bigger lies than pretending to like that horrible moustache. These lies changed everything about a person. Good men do not love killers like her, she thought.

There was a huff of annoyance in her ear. For a moment, she thought she heard Mycroft swearing. “Handle this,” he said tightly. “You know how to do this. Remember Monaco?”

Sherlock tried to step forward, but the gun flickered up, aiming at him.

“Oh Sherlock, if you take one step closer, I swear I will kill you,” she said.

“No, Mrs. Watson,” he replied, a slight smile on his lips. Which irritated her. Sherlock didn’t know who he was playing with and these assumptions made her want to throttle him. For a moment she realized this was how John felt with Sherlock and inwardly she chuckled. It was like dealing with a six-foot-tall, well-tailored toddler.

“You won’t,” Sherlock stepped forward, then she pulled the trigger. Blood blossomed across his white shirt and for a moment, he looked stunned.

“I’m sorry Sherlock,” Mary said, trying not to have her voice waver as she realized everything was careening out of control. She hoped that Mycroft heard her. “Truly I am.”

“Mary?” Sherlock gasped.

The alarms started to blare. The rest was pure instinct as Mary slammed the butt of the pistol against Magnussen’s temple, knocking him out. Fleeing the room and running down the stairs, she could hear Mycroft muttering in her ear.

“I told the meddling halfwit it wasn’t his business,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Stubborn to a fault, brother mine.”

“Are you sure he’ll survive?” she asked.

“Are you sure of your shot?” Mycroft sounded vaguely peeved, which translated to him being very upset the mission went tits-up.

“Remember Monaco?”

“I still have that scar,” there was a cold chuckle. “Anthea and the car are in the back. You have two minutes to get to her. Things are about to get --” there was a sigh of distaste. “Complicated.”

~*~

_Fifteen years ago_

Mycroft let out an audible sigh as he stared at the dossier. His eyes drew upward to meet his  colleague’s face, a smug smile pasted on it.

“Really, The Baker?” he said, distaste dripping from every syllable.

“Thought it’d be a perfect match for you, Fatcroft,” his colleague smirked. “It’s her first time out in the field with us and we need a minder we can trust. She has a reputation for going off routine.”

Mycroft allowed himself to roll his eyes as he watched the operative leave before quickly opening the folder and reading it over. Whatever the mission was, it was clear that it was supposed to be unconnected to his organization, hence the hiring of the freelancer.

He stared at the picture of the woman, young and in her mid-20s. Military background, expert in hand-to-hand combat of several different varieties, top marks in shooting, racked up numerous kills in the field, expert in extraction, blah, blah, blah. he thought as he finished the folder, snapping it shut.

The mission looked to be fairly basic. Meet with her -- alias Kerry Downey -- in Monaco. With luck the entire thing should end within forty-eight hours and Mycroft could return home with another success on his list and he could get out of field work.

Some officers enjoyed field work. Mycroft found it tedious, dull and irritating because he spent most of the time babysitting people whose lust for danger outweighed good sense. Turning to his desk, Mycroft quickly fired off an e-mail to Mummy, apologizing for being unable to join the family for Sunday dinner and a showing of Mamma Mia! She would be disappointed, but understanding. Of all people, Mummy understood that his line of work was important.

~*~

Normally her missions led her to dingy places filled with rats, suspect heating and cooling conditions and undrinkable water. So when Kerry Downey found out she was going to Monaco for a job -- that paid well -- she leapt at it.

Somewhere warm that oozed money? Hopefully she’d be able to spend time on a yacht posing as some oligarch’s girlfriend. Maybe she could be an oligarch’s girlfriend and take a break from the murder business.

She scanned the airport, looking for her -- ugh -- handler. That was the one terrible part of the mission. Why they thought she needed one was beyond her to be honest. She worked fine on her own. Just because one -- let’s be honest, two -- missions got sloppy --

She took the cup of coffee and paid the cashier, then headed to the gate. Along the way she passed a ruddy man in a grey tweed suit. He was chubby, lacking in chin and his reddish-brownish hair was smoothed down. She was reminded of that kid in school who would always have a question during club meetings right when the teacher would say, “Does anyone have a question?” which would drag the meeting on for another hour. The other kids would shoot daggers at the little smug snot.

He fell in step with her as they both walked to the gate.

“I hear in Barcelona there’s rain forecast,” he said.

“Yes but the wind is a gentle breeze,” she replied, disappointed he didn’t get the joke. She specifically picked out the code phrases to see if they would pick up on the lyric.

“Barcelona, wasn’t that where we first met?” he continued.

“How can I forget?” she glanced over at him, smiling. There was a neutral expression that was cooler than warm, but she wasn’t surprised. Her reputation was at the point now where people sometimes considered her a headache -- useful and effective, but also impulsive. She had heard the talk, so she wasn’t surprised that he looked as happy to see her as Margaret Thatcher would look to see a poor person.

He took her hand, “The moment you walked into the room, you took my breath away.” He leaned closer to her and pressed his lips to her cheek. “Nice to meet you Kerry Downey,” he whispered.

She pulled back and swung his hand in hers. “Likewise --”

“Mycroft --” the words were so soft, she had to strain to hear them. “Mycroft Holmes.”

A cold shiver went down her spine. Shit she thought. She had heard of Mycroft Holmes. He was persnickety, by-the-book and snobbish. Word on the street was that he was barely tolerating field work because he had his eyes on a bigger prize. In other words, he was someone looking for a promotion and didn’t give a shit about the other agents.

“Great,” she felt her smile get fixed. “Pleasure working with you.”

~*~

Mycroft sighed in disgust as he scanned the beach. The sun was beating down on his neck and he mopped at his forehead with a handkerchief. As usual, Kerry Downey was nowhere to be seen.

The entire damned mission had expanded from two days to four. His agent was impossible to find, often galavanting out to nightclubs or lounging on the beach in disturbingly small bikinis. He was fairly sure she was watching the target, but part of him wasn’t sure -- a feeling he loathed.

There -- she was on the beach, sunning herself in a white string bikini, blonde hair slicked back and giggling at some meathead who was spreading sunscreen on her back. He sat back, watching as they conversed. He recognized the man -- an associate of the target.

 _At least she’s doing work_ , he thought to himself, as he seated himself at a cafe and ordered a drink, watching them through his sunglasses. He sat and sipped it for awhile, then reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette case and placed one in his mouth, then lit it. Inhaling, he listened to the conversation around him, while watching her giggle and flirt.

She was working the honeypot scheme and he was well aware of it. Took a longer time, but the possibilities of getting away with a cleaner kill were higher, he mused. Of course it was also riskier because if they caught onto her plan, she was a dead woman.

 _It would have been nice if she let me know what she had planned_ , he grumbled to himself, tucking the cigarette case back in his suit pocket. _I understand why other officers dislike her so much. She’s uncontrollable. Doesn’t share information. Terrible._

Looking back on the situation years later, Mycroft would realize that he had let his mind slip. He got distracted thanks to the stupidity of youthful sulking, but he was definitely not paying attention when an attractive woman seated herself next to him, pointed a gun at him under the table and said, “Mr. Holmes, colleagues of mine would love to meet with you.”

He sipped his drink, cursed inwardly and then looked at her and smiled. “How can I say no to such a persuasive argument?”

They left in a sedan with tinted windows. After a short journey, he ended up on a yacht -- the target’s yacht -- and hauled belowdecks. Along the way, he noticed his agent sitting on the lap of the man she was chatting up earlier, nuzzling his ear and giggling.

He glanced over at her. She smiled brightly at him.

“Bitch,” was all he could say, before being pushed downstairs and unceremoniously being shoved in a cabin. Hearing the click of the lock behind him, he scanned the cabin -- typical eurotrash luxury, too much ostentatious wood, books that were left to impress people, but not the sign of a true reader. Nothing of use to help him break out of the cabin. Not that it would be of any use. He was outnumbered and as the engines of the yacht roared to life, he realized that sneaking off the boat would just end with him in the water. In a wet linen suit. That would be suboptimal.

There was nothing left to do but wait.

Sometime later that night, an alarm roused him from a light doze. The door opened and two thugs came in the room and grabbed him, frog-marching him without a word to the top of the yacht, where there was a helipad along with their target -- a striking older woman with black hair who was also a skilled double agent -- stood in front of him.

“Mycroft Holmes,” the woman smiled. “I can’t believe I’ve got the crown jewel of Her Majesty’s Service.”

“Honor Lumley,” There was the scent of fire on the ship and a wind whipped around them. He could hear thunder rumbling as a storm began rolling in.

“Do you realize how many people want you?”

“I never thought of myself as a wanted man.”

She stalked over to him, her attractive features twisting into a snarl before the pleasant smile returned. “You are valuable,” she purred. “I can’t wait to deliver you to the highest bidder. I can’t believe they’d let you out with The Baker of all people.”

He shrugged. “She is unreliable,” he said.

“Aren’t you going to beg or plead?” Her smirk widened.

“No.”

Two shots rang out and the thugs fell to the ground. Honor grabbed Mycroft, holding him tightly against her. “Come on out Baker,” she sang out. “Do you really think you’ll get off this boat without me and with Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft grunted in pain as she grabbed his arm and pulled it back.

“I do,” Baker’s voice rang out in the darkness, “But I don’t care if I have Mr. Holmes with me or not.”

Exquisite pain -- there was no other way to describe it -- ripped through Mycroft as a shot hit him. He crumpled to the ground, gasping as his torso burned. Another shot rang out and Honor Lumley fell to the ground, blood spurting out of her forehead.

He could hear running and Baker came to his side.

“Cough three times,” she commanded.

He did so, relieved to not see blood in his saliva.

She bent down, helping him up and leading him to the helicopter. It was painful and he could feel himself getting cold.

“Breathe,” she said, tucking his legs in and strapping him in with care. “You don’t have blood in your lungs so you’re fine.” She hopped into the pilot’s seat and then started the engine. “Talk to me,” she said. “I need you to talk to me so I know you’re not blacking out.”

“About what?” he gasped.

“What’s your favorite dessert?” she asked. “What kind of pudding do you like?”

He chuckled. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”

“You look like a pudding sort of guy. Like the type who would do therapy eating when things are pissing you off,” she babbled, as the helicopter left the pad and explosions rocked the boat. “Oh good,” she mused. “They went off. Well, we should be fine then. So what kind of pudding do you like?”

Mycroft closed his eyes, remembering back to when he was a child. “My father,” his voice faltered. “My father makes a wonderful simple chocolate pudding, just straight chocolate, but he’ll cover it was a caramel sauce and a slight dusting of sea salt to change the flavor a bit.” He could remember being a small child, home from school, his birthday, sometimes making it with Daddy, standing on a chair, carefully measuring out the cream and chocolate.

“I always liked Jaffa cakes,” Mary’s voice brought him back to reality. “Especially when you’re up in a tower, belly down, with a Russian .30 millimeter with you and you’re watching your target. Just the orange flavor. Always a comfort. And they fit so easily in your mouth so your hands are free to take the shot.” She glanced over at him. “Cough.”

He did so. “No blood,” he whispered, just feeling tired.

“We’re almost there,” she said. “Just be cool. It’s gonna be fine.” He felt her hand take his and squeeze it, before returning to the controls. “Breathe. What do you like to listen to?”

“Silence.”

She burst out laughing. It was a bright cackle, genuinely amused with a hint of adrenaline running through it. Then the rain started and there was no more laughter.

He ended up at a hospital in Monaco. The doctors said he was lucky -- thanks to his girth, the cigarette case and the placement of the shot, his vital organs were fine. The bullet was lodged against a rib and was removed with surgery. Which resulted in a few days in hospital. Mycroft knew better. That wasn’t luck, that was surgery.

The only visitor was his superior, Jones, who confirmed Mycroft’s suspicions that there was a mole selling information to Lumley. The mole had been captured passing on information that he and Baker were going after Lumley.

“Just rest for a few days,” Jones said with a smile. “You’ll be coming back home soon enough. No more field work. We wouldn’t have found the mole if you didn’t say something. Your brain is just too valuable to be out there.”

One night Baker returned. He woke to see her squatting in a chair, staring down at him. She vibrated with nervous energy.

“You didn’t have to shoot me,” he said.

“I needed you out of the way to get a clean shot.”

He moved the bed up so he could look at her. Her blond hair peeked out from under a black skullcap and she somehow looked even younger. The silence lingered, but shifted from nervous to calculating. She cocked her head and the little girl was gone -- replaced with something cold and reptilian.

“If you’re looking to appease your conscience, there is no need,” he rasped. “And the payment went through, so you should be satisfied.”

She nodded, then got up and left the room, but not before leaving a cheap store-bought chocolate pudding in a disposable container, a jar of caramel sauce and a salt shaker on the table.

~*~

Mary slid into the car, buckling herself in as Anthea pulled away from the building. Police were already surrounding the building and for a moment, she glanced out of the window, looking for her husband.

“Stop that,” Anthea hissed as she shifted gears and the car sped away down the street. “Don’t give him the possibility of seeing you. You should know that by now.”

Mary nodded, suddenly feeling her phone vibrate and she went to check it.

_Sherlock’s in hospital. Tonight went badly._

She began typing out her message. _Are you all right?_

_Yeah. But he’s not doing well. I’ve notified Mycroft. Hopefully I’ll be home soon._

Mary bit her lip and took a deep breath. _Should I come over?_

_No. Stay home and stay safe. I’ll see you soon._

Mary breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t sure how she’d explain smelling like gunpowder and looking like she had run a marathon, but if John needed her there, she would be there for him.

 _Take your time. Make sure that idiot is safe. I love you,_ she typed out.

_Love you too._

Anthea sighed as she turned the car into a warehouse. “This is why we don’t fall in love,” she muttered under the breath. “Just too bloody complicated.”

~*~

_Seven years ago_

“Why on Earth are you calling me?” Mycroft’s voice sounded peeved and weary, which was exactly where Mary wanted him.

“Bored,” Mary replied, adjusting her position -- flat on her stomach, glancing through the scope across the way to the high-rise luxury hotel where an overweight, self-satisfied man was enjoying the company of a woman. “The target took a Viagra, so I think I might be here for awhile.” She leaned over and grabbed a Jaffa cake, shoving the whole thing in her mouth.

“You realize I can see you on the video screen and that is disgusting,” Mycroft muttered. “Just take the shot.”

“Can’t,” Mary swallowed. “She’s on top. Don’t want to hit her. Gonna have to wait until they switch positions.” She winced as she watched them. “This is terrifying. Like an elephant seal mating with a kitten terrifying. I may be put off of sex forever.”

“Maybe then you’ll be able to focus on the task at hand.”

“I am a hale and hearty woman in my thirties,” Mary grinned as she watched through the scope. “I am reaching my sexual peak and I can’t help it if my appetites are stronger than most other people’s.”

“Those appetites will be your downfall,” Mycroft retorted. “And must you shove two Jaffa cakes in your mouth? It’s off putting.”

“Well you are trying to lose weight -- that’s what Giselle told me,” Mary said after she swallowed. “So think of this to curb your appetites. How’s the diet going anyways?”

“Tedious.”

She laughed, then grinned more widely as the couple switched positions. “Tell Margarite to get ready,” she said, pulling the trigger and admiring her handiwork. “I’ll be down in two.”

~*~

_Five years ago_

He knew she was in his flat before he even opened the door or entered the building. And he knew she was furious at being used in that capacity.

So he wasn’t that surprised when he found himself staring down the barrel of her pistol in the darkened living room.

“You had me extract an innocent man,” she hissed. “You had me extract an innocent man and his family and deliver them to the people that would hurt them the most.”

“Yes,” he said.  “I thought you didn’t worry about those things. You are the best at this -- the peak of your game and you asked for a job. I gave one to you.” Mycroft tilted his head.

“They’re innocents,” she retorted. “They didn’t deserve what we did.”

“Why are you suddenly troubling yourself with that now?” Mycroft asked. “Do you realize all the innocents we leave in our wake? There is always collateral damage. Family, friends, world powers, power structures. Nature abhors a vacuum and you can’t rip out a cancer without some trouble. Everyone is innocent in someone else’s eyes.”

Mary twitched as the cold gleam in her eye melted into something else -- horror. It was as if she had never contemplated all of that until Mycroft said something. A gasp escaped her mouth.

“Really?” he sighed. “How tedious. I thought you were something smarter, more aware. You have a job. You are very good at your job and suddenly now you have a case of morals? What did you think you were doing before? Playing video games?”

The silence lingered as her expression turned from horror to sadness. But she never lowered the pistol, choosing to keep it pointed at him. Which was impressive. Somehow she was reorganizing and rationalizing what she had done and was making plans in her head. He admired that survival skill. Other operatives had chosen to bury that realization under drinking, drugs or suicide. She was shoving everything back into tidy boxes. Maybe there was hope for her.

She stood up, putting the gun back in her holster. “I’m done,” she spat out. “This was the last job. Don’t call me again. Forget my name, forget everything.”

She stalked out of the flat. Watching from the window, Mycroft watched as she hailed a cab and vanished into the night. He then poured himself a glass of Scotch and opened his laptop computer, knowing that someday she was going to need his help. No one got out of their businesses completely free.

He watched her over time, saw her build a life outside of their work, fall in love and plan to get married. He started at the wedding invitation, debating about whether or not to go, before deciding against it. Sherlock would pick up on something odd between the two of them (damn his little brother for being so perceptive) and that wasn’t something that either of them needed.

Besides, he was busy with his own things. Moriarty needed to be neutralized, then Charles Augustus Magnussen was proving to be a bigger annoyance than even Mycroft realized. Magnussen was making plans, but unfortunately working well within the law and he was prominent enough that making him simply disappear was a bad idea. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for the inevitable day when Baker -- now Mary Morstan-Watson walked back into his life.

He was rewarded one day when she entered his office. She plunked down a paper bag. It gave an ominous thunk sound. Mycroft opened it and glanced inside.

“I’ve been learning to bake,” Mary said. “They’re scones. I used whole wheat flour because Sherlock told me you were trying to eat healthier. They’ve got raisins in them. I heard you liked raisins.”

Mycroft took one out of the bag and tapped it on the surface of his desk. It left a slight dent. He glanced at her, arching an eyebrow. She looked simultaneously younger and older and that same frenetic energy he knew vibrated off of her like a tightly wound coil as she bounced on her heels.

“Magnussen I take it?” he said, motioning to a seat. Mary slid into it, purse in lap.

“Yes.”

“What a surprise,” Mycroft smiled thinly. “We have a common enemy. Are you sure you want to come back?”

Mary nodded. “If it was just me and John, I could run,” she began. “I mean, I’d break his heart, but he’d be safe. But --” she glanced down at her belly.

“There’s another,” Mycroft said.

Another nod. “No more running,” she said softly.

“No, no more running.”

~*~

She saw him first, a box of Jaffa cakes in his hand. He was in a suit -- as usual -- umbrella at his side. There was a moue of annoyance on his face, which meant that he was really worried about the situation.

He quickly spotted her and tossed the box to Mary. She caught it and pried it open, more out of habit than real hunger.  He winced when he saw her shove three of them in her mouth, without thinking. Then a wave of nausea hit her as she realized what she had done. Mary doubled over, retching up the food.

Mycroft strode over to her, offering his handkerchief, which she accepted. Wiping her mouth, she glanced up at him. “What are we going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“What the hell do you mean nothing?” she glared at him. “Magnussen is still alive, your brother has been shot, John --”

“We wait,” he said firmly. “Sherlock is alive and in hospital. Magnussen will be dealt with.”

“But John will find out!” Mary let out a hysterical laugh. “I’ve got to get out of here. He’s going to kill me. I just tried to kill --”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“He going to think I tried to kill Sherlock. That’s not exactly stay married material. I’m dead,” she moaned. “I’m dead. Our baby --”

“Will be fine,” Mycroft replied. “Of course John is going to find out. Do you really think Sherlock would keep silent about this?”

“He’s going to leave me,” Mary said. “Good people don’t stay with people like us. We’re monsters. We’re horrible. How could anyone --”

A chuckle escaped his lips. “My dear Mary,” he said. “Do you really think your husband is an angel and paragon of goodness? Look at the company he keeps. My brother is his closest friend. My brother who didn’t tell him he faked his death for two years. My brother who drugged him once. I don’t know why he continues to associate with my brother, but I can assure you that good, normal people do not do that. They give up on people like us. They walk away.”

“So what the hell are you saying?” Mary wiped her mouth, wishing that she could have some water to wash the bile out. “Are you saying that he’s going to leave me? Have me arrested?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I don’t know. But I also think that you chose John Watson for a reason. And it wasn’t that moustache,” he was pleased to see her giggle. “For someone with a lot of secrets you chose a man whose best friend’s obsession is uncovering secrets. Why on earth would you do that?”

“Are you saying that I wanted the truth to come out?” The tone of her voice was similar to his reaction when a psychiatrist said he had control issues, hence his dieting and career choices.

Mycroft shrugged.

“But I don’t want him to know,” she said. “He’s --”

“Probably not going to leave,” Mycroft swung his umbrella up and examined the tip of it. Scuffed. That was disappointing. “I would wager that he is going to be furious and probably want to be left alone to contemplate things, but as long as you don’t do something as thick as what Sherlock did with that bomb, you should be fine. Oh and Sherlock is going to be as theatrical as possible in exposing the truth. He always had a flair for dramatics.”

“And you’re wrong?” Mary’s tone was calmer, but there was still the edge of panic in it.

“Then you worry about it later. But this was going to catch up with you sooner or later and you knew that.”

She sighed, then shoved another Jaffa cake in her mouth. “Time to get my big girl pants on,” she said. “Thanks for the Jaffa cakes.” Mary turned and slowly ambled out of the warehouse. “I’ll find my way home,” she said over her shoulder.

Anthea sidled up to Mycroft, handing him his coat. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were fond of the girl,” she said with a slight smile.

Mycroft glanced over at her. “My dear,” he said, taking her arm and escorting her to the car. “I merely outlined the probabilities of what was going to happen.”


End file.
